He sighed and handed it over. She riffled through it, pulled out some notes and offered them to me. I wanted to say no but I thought that a person who comes and works for you, sorting out your office, then refuses any payment, stops looking like a saint and starts looking a bit creepy, maybe even suspicious. I took the money. “Thank you,” I said.

“Tomorrow?” she said.

“Tomorrow, at least,” I said.

We left the house together.

“You know how we all love you,” said Frances.

“Don’t be silly,” I said.

“I mean, Johnny completely adores her,” she said to her husband, who smiled distantly and moved away from the hand she laid on his arm. I saw her wince as she registered the slight. She was too eager with him, I thought, and too anxious, while he treated her with something close to contempt. I felt a spasm of pity for Frances—a beautiful woman in her privileged life, yet she was clearly unhappy.

THE OLD LADY behind the counter at the Oxfam shop in Kentish Town Road seemed disconcerted when I gave her the banknotes and said I didn’t want to buy anything. She tried to make me take a dress or even a book, but I wouldn’t be persuaded and she reluctantly gave up. I left feeling as if I’d been shoplifting, but in reverse.

Chapter Fifteen

Do you think,” I asked, “that it would be a good idea for me to go through Milena’s emails and check there aren’t any more nasty surprises waiting to jump out at you?”

Frances had just discovered that she and Milena had been expected at a client’s large house in Kingston upon Thames to discuss plans for her daughter’s wedding. Even from the other side of the room, I could hear the woman’s voice coming down the phone, high and irate.

“Milena never mentioned it,” said Frances, dejectedly, after she had ended the conversation and promised she would be there the following day. “She was supposed to write everything in the office diary.”

“Can I see the diary?” I asked. “Just to double-check things.”

“Would you?”

I took the large, hard-backed book, which had a page for each day and was covered with scrawls, crossings-out, reminders, and tried to memorize appointments so I could cross-reference them with Greg’s chart, but I soon gave up. I’d have to write them down later.

Frances had no objection to me sifting through Milena’s messages, but the computer did. I found that to access her email I had to enter a password. “What was it?” I asked Frances.

“I haven’t a clue.”